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Comments by turnleft

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Posted on November 1 at 8:42 a.m.

Seven bubbles short of plumb.

On Randy Quaid Speaks Out

Posted on September 20 at 8:27 a.m.

Letting go is highly overrated. The victim might feel liberated, but the cause of the misdeed isn't made to face the consequences of his actions/neglect. Maybe she can't sue for child support, but since 'almost famous' may also be 'almost wealthy', she should seek alternate legal avenues or even toss his name to the publicity vultures. There will be time to drop the rock and forget about the jerk when the dust settles.

People harrassed on the job, in personal relationships, in the marketplace or on the streets might think twice before they 'Let Go and Let God'. Do the world a favor and kick some sand in their faces. Miscreants might see the wisdom in altering their behavior.

"Break the Whip" is not going to fund her son's education.

On Tim Robbins and The Actors Gang..."Break The Whip"

Posted on September 13 at 10:47 a.m.

Leading the pack in terms of political prominence is former Santa Barbara Mayor Marty Blum, whose taken a handful of adult education classes over the years.

Gasp! A grammatical error. Whose is possessive; who's (who has) is the correct spelling. A poster already pointed out the retried/retired blooper. Readers might conclude the Indie doesn't care about proper usage or its proofreader is asleep on the job.

I spent some time at SBCC when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Continuing Ed thrived. The issue is representative of the deepening chasm between students, faculty and administration nationwide.

On Budget Blues in Double C-Flat

Posted on August 27 at 10:25 a.m.

I'm glad the New York DA's office is finally paying attention. She's not the first aging heiress susceptible to smooth-talking snake oil salesmen. I hope investigators can unravel the secrecy surrounding her estate and that these sleazoids end up in the clink where they belong.

On Who’s Watching Huguette’s Millions?

Posted on August 6 at 7:38 a.m.

It’s a week when everything gets a little wild and wacky and, if the mood strikes, romantic.

When dinosauers roamed the earth, I met a long-married, good-looking academic whose wife was out of town that summer. Long story short, he came out of our affair with Catholic guilt, and I returned to the halls of learning. I probably got the best of the deal.

On Wild, Wacky, and Romantic

Posted on July 2 at 6:57 p.m.

Shame on you. I loved that movie.

On Kicks at Old Route 66 Bagdad Café

Posted on April 30 at 12:05 p.m.

The blue-nosed ladies in red will never have cancer or some other debilitating condition only pot could alleviate? Let's wait a few years and observe how they tough it out when authorized meds can't provide relief.

As for proximity to recovery centers and tempting teens, recovering alcoholics and gamblers learn to live with social drinking and gambling. Addiction specialists don't call for outlawing the sale of liquor, office pools and state lotteries.

On 3-D Dog

Posted on April 30 at 11:39 a.m.

Quaid was doing just fine until the witch cast her spell over him. Evi is nothing but trouble; the talented actor can't resurrect his career until she's out of his life.

On Quaids Negotiate Plea Deal

Posted on April 26 at 9:05 a.m.

At the University of Washington School of Nursing it's called the 'sandwiched' generation.

On The Sandwich Generation

Posted on March 26 at 12:35 p.m.

In the mid 1950s I shared a cabin on our parents’ sailboat with my young step siblings. For three agonizing weeks I listened to their high-pitched rendition of "Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier" morning and night. Awakened once too often by the then despised song at 5:30 a.m. I yelled "g-- d---m you kids, shut up!". Mother stormed in and chewed me out for using profanity and the decibel level and tone of my voice. The concept of 'fair' was not part of the equation; I embarrassed her with guests on board.

I later lived in Santa Barbara where Parker was a buying up real estate and building resorts. Behind the laid-back aw shucks cowboy was a shrewd, hard-driving wife who, it was said, called the shots. I paid $15.00 for a stale sandwich and to watch a fashion show featuring fur coats at one of his posh hotels. The sparkling palace stood on the site of a funky beach hangout the former TV star razed in his mission to part the wealthy from their riches.

I'm sure Mr. Parker deserves more benign postings than mine. This blurb is about how one person was affected by Davy Crockett's alter ego.

On Fussing with Fess

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